Sowing the Seeds
by QueenRiley
Summary: Seemingly every day events can change the course of a person's life. Five very different people were set on the path to become Power Rangers back when they were children, long before they ever knew their own destinies. These are their stories. RPM
1. Flynn

Flynn

Flynn hated the playground at school. The bigger boys were mean. The smaller boys were afraid and wouldn't talk to him. And the girls were, well, girls. Blech. His da said one day he'd change his mind, but he was already a whole six years old and girls were still gross. He couldn't imagine ever liking one, forget about wanting to kiss one!

And then there were the bullies. They mostly left him alone, and he was glad for that, but he hated to see them pick on the other kids. It burnt him up inside, made him so angry, but he didn't know how to fix it. The teachers didn't do much. He knew he'd get in trouble if he fought the bullies. His da had always told him to go the peaceful route first. He wasn't supposed to hit people. And besides, if he hit them, he was no better than they were.

"You're quiet today," his granddad said, squeezing his hand. His granddad always picked him up from school. They walked home together and it was his favourite time of the whole day, just the two of them.

"Granddad, can I ask you something?" he asked. There was nobody in the world smarter than his granddad. If anybody could help him, he could.

"Course you can, lad! Anything at all!" His granddad jiggled their hands and it made him smile.

"How do you stop bullies?" he asked. His granddad stopped walking and pulled Flynn up short. He kneeled down to Flynn's level and that's when Flynn knew this was serious. It was hard for his granddad to get down like that and he hardly ever did it anymore. His granddad gripped his little shoulders tight and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Are they bothering you at school, Flynn? Are ya being teased?" He looked so worried, it almost scared Flynn.

"No, Granddad. They leave me alone. But they pick on the little kids. I just want to know how to make them stop."

"You want to stop them bothering other kids?" He wasn't sure why his granddad seemed so surprised. Why wouldn't he want to stop the bullies? He nodded. With a groan and some cracking that didn't sound normal, his granddad stood up and took him by the hand again. They turned around and headed away from home, back towards town.

Flynn was surprised when they stopped in front of a small shop. His granddad greeted the owner by name, picked up a few books, and then walked him home. They were quiet the whole way and Flynn was pretty confused. He didn't have an answer to his question at all, and his granddad had never left his questions unanswered before. He was just starting to feel sorry for himself again when they got home. He ran to his room to change out of his school uniform.

"Sit down, lad. I have something to show you." His granddad motioned to the old, worn sofa. Flynn tossed his bag to the side and then climbed up. The books from earlier were pulled out of the bag and his granddad sat down next to him. Flynn snuggled in close, taking a deep breath. He loved the way his granddad smelled. It never failed to make him feel all calm and still inside.

"What's that, Granddad?" he asked, pointing at the books.

"Comics, Flynn. They're for you." The entire stack was passed into his lap and Flynn looked, wide eyed, between the books and his granddad.

"For me? All of them?" He couldn't believe his luck! It wasn't even his birthday. His granddad nodded and flipped open the first book. The pages were full of pictures of heroes in brightly coloured suits fighting off the evil villains.

"I can't promise they'll help with the bullies, there's naught in this world to stop a bully, but your motives are pure. Stand up to them, lad. Be a hero." Flynn touched the pages with reverence, slowly flipping through and admiring each and every detail. The heroes in the book were all tall and strong, big huge muscles all over the place. Flynn wasn't anything like them. He was just a little boy.

"But I'm not a hero, Granddad. I'm just a little boy. All I want to know is how to help people." His granddad put a shaking hand on Flynn's shoulder and squeezed gently. He looked like he was about to cry and Flynn wasn't sure what he'd done to make him sad.

"You're so much like your mam, you know. Heart of gold, that one, God rest her poor soul." His granddad was stroking his hair now and it made him feel all warm inside. He never knew his mam. She'd died when he was just a baby, but he always loved when people talked about her. It made Da sad, so he never asked, but when he was compared to her, something felt extra happy inside.

"That's a hero's heart, Flynn my boy. Keep trying to do the right thing and one day you'll be a hero, just like them." He pointed to the comics and Flynn smiled. If his granddad believed he could it, it must be so. His granddad would never say something if it wasn't true.

Two months later, they buried his granddad. Flynn lived the rest of his life by his granddad's words.


	2. Scott

Scott

Scott stomped into his room. He slammed the door behind him, but it hit a buffer of air and didn't make the loud bang he was hoping for. He opened it back up and pushed against it with all his might. That was more satisfying. But he was still angry.

He wanted to hit something. He was being all torn up inside and he needed to let it out. He needed to break something like he was breaking. He started by throwing his books off his bookshelf, but he still felt angry. He dumped the cars out of his car box and that might a nice clatter, but he was still raging inside. So he ripped open the seams of his pillow. He threw the soft fluff into the air, but even that didn't help. It floated down around him, but he didn't feel any better.

He could scream he was so mad! He was feeling so out of control, just lost and wild. He was so furious and he couldn't rein it in, couldn't get control. He had to do something to get all the anger out. Then he spied his trophies. That would get him. That would do it. So Scott climbed precariously on top of his dresser and pushed all those trophies right off that shelf. They clattered to the floor, some breaking against the wall on the way down.

His door opened and he turned, ready to scream at whoever was bothering him. It was just Marcus though. He sat down heavy on top of his dresser. He panted, lips pursed, still feeling the wild anger careening inside of him.

"Have a fight with Dad again?" Marcus asked, quietly closing the door behind him. Scott couldn't speak. His voice would waver and he didn't dare let it. Big boys didn't show weakness, isn't that what their father always said? He nodded sullenly and Marcus walked over to him, stepping carefully over the pieces of broken plastic from his trophies. He wrapped his arms around Scott's small frame and hauled him off the dresser. With an arm around his shoulder, Marcus led him over to the bed. Scott climbed up and backed into the corner, curling into a ball. Marcus sat beside him, arm wrapped around his shoulders, giving him strength. It was comforting.

"He doesn't mean it, y'know, and neither do you. You're both just too stubborn to say so." Scott knew Marcus was right, but it didn't make him feel any better.

"He hates me," he whined. Marcus gripped his shoulder. He was so much bigger, solid and thick like their father. Scott was like their mother, slim and lanky. It felt good to be wrapped up in Marcus's warmth though.

"Dad doesn't hate you. He loves you so much. He's just not good with that stuff."

"I'm not good enough." He really was whining now, and he knew he shouldn't. He was seven; he should have outgrown that by now. But he couldn't help it. He was mad and he was sad and he wanted to cry or hit something and he couldn't figure it all out. He didn't know how he could feel all that all at once and the confusion just made it worse. He felt like one big ball of mess and he couldn't straighten it all out.

"You are more than good enough, little bro. He's just trying to make you into the best man you can be, in the only way he knows how." Marcus started rubbing his back and that helped him feel a little calmer.

"I don't like his way. Couldn't you teach me how to be a man?" he asked hopefully. Marcus laughed.

"I'm not a man yet, Scotty. I'm only eleven. I don't even know what kind of man I'll be." Scott slid right next to his brother, cradled in the hollow of his arm.

"I do. You'll be a great man. You're nice and you're fair and you make sure everybody is okay. You don't yell. Not like Dad."

"Dad's a great man, too. You'll see it one day." Marcus seemed so sure and Scott really wanted to believe him, but he was still kind of mad at his father. It was just a stupid argument but nobody could get him quite so worked up as his dad could.

"I wish Mom were still here," he whispered. His tears of anger had turned to just sadness now and he buried his face against his brother. Marcus was warm and strong and he would help.

"Me too, kid." Marcus sounded sad too.

"Can we talk to her?" Scott asked. He knew she couldn't talk back, but sometimes it helped.

"Sure we can. She'll hear us, wherever she is. I'll walk you down to the cemetery after dinner, okay?" Scott hugged his brother tightly. Marcus always knew the right thing to say and just what to do. Marcus always knew just how to bring them back together again.

They sat like that for a few minutes, just calming down and being together. Scott finally let go and slid to the edge of his bed. He stood up and looked around. He'd made a really big mess and now he'd have to clean it all up. He sighed.

"C'mon, Little Man. I'll help and we'll get it done in no time." Scott smiled and nodded.

Marcus always knew how to make him feel better. He would give up his own free time to help out his brother, was always there when Scott needed him. Marcus was going to be a great man, a great leader, when he grew up. Scott wanted to be just like him.


	3. Dillon

Dillon

Dillon pouted in his seat. His collar was too tight, but if he tugged at it his mom would smack his hand. He hated being dressed up and he hated being forced to sit through yet another boring ceremony. He was twelve years old. He had far better things to do than hang out at his sister's school all night. He crossed his arms and huffed and slouched. They could make him sit here, but they couldn't make him like it.

His mother fussed at his hair while the lights went down, and he swatted her hand away. This was a horrible way to spend a Friday night. He sighed dramatically and she glared at him. His father finally joined them in their seats, having gotten 'Aya settled backstage. He tugged on Dillon's suit jacket until he sat up straight. Dillon glared at the stage. She owed him big time for this.

Of course, just his luck, she was the last person to get up and read her essay. He had to sit through two kids per grade from kindergarten right up through fifth grade before his sister got her turn. She was ten and the last fifth grader to read. He was so bored. The night just kept dragging on and on. He just wanted it to be over already so he could get home to his video games. He had slowly inched his way back down the seat again. The only thing keeping him awake was the steady banging of his head against the chair. If he stopped, he'd probably die of boredom.

But then his sister was led on stage by her teacher. She had some papers in her hand and was assisted in getting them set up on the podium. Dillon's father shoved him until he was upright. He didn't get why a stupid essay was so important that he had to be there listening to it. She wrote essays all the time. Stupid school for the blind and their stupid presentations all the darn time. Every few months he had to sit in this old and smelly gymnasium and listen to a bunch of blind kids talk about all the life skills they were learning. He tried to covertly check his watch, hoping she wouldn't be too long winded, but his mother kicked him and made him pay attention.

"My Hero," his sister started. Her glassy eyes stared across the gymnasium, leveled above all their heads. Her hands trailed along the pages, reading the Braille she'd typed out. He groaned out loud. Some stupid essay about some stupid hero. It was probably about some singer or author or something. Or maybe it was even worse. It might be about Mom. He shuddered. How corny.

"A hero is a person you can rely on. A hero is somebody who always watches out for you, who does things for you even if he never gets thanks. Heroes don't ask for rewards or recognition. They sacrifice everything for those in need. A hero is somebody you can look up to." Dillon rolled his eyes. It was going to be one of ithose/i essays.

"The person I choose to write about is all that and so much more. I'm very lucky to have so many people in my life that love me and take care of me, but I'm luckiest of all because my hero is with me every single day. My hero is my brother, Dillon." Well that made him sit up and pay attention. Him? He was her hero? She was just his little sister who he was always responsible for. He had no clue she thought so highly of him. He couldn't fathom why.

"My brother holds my hand when we're outside. He takes me to the park and tells me where to walk and where I can play. My brother gives me independence. He lets me explore my world and I know I'm always safe when he's there. My brother would never let anything bad happen to me. He protects me. I can always count on him and he's always right there when I need him. He never complains about helping me out. He never asks for thanks." Well that part was blatantly untrue, but he supposed she'd never heard him complain to their parents about his responsibilities in regards to her. His mother was looking at him with pride and he felt a little shamed for having made such a fuss about coming to the presentation tonight. He turned his eyes back to the stage and his sister while she finished her essay.

"Dillon will never let me down. I couldn't live without him. He gives me hope when I think it's hopeless. He shows me faith when I think all is lost. He gives me strength when I think I can't go on. My brother is my best friend, my hero, and I love him very much." She collected her papers and her teacher came back on stage to lead her safely off while polite applause rang through the auditorium. Dillon could feel tears pricking at his eyes, but he stood up on his chair and clapped as hard and loud as he could. Maybe nobody else was making a big deal out of cheering her on, but he made it the most important thing he could do. He wanted her to hear him, to know he was there and he'd heard it all. He wanted her to hear the only way he could say thank you. She smiled out at the audience and he knew she'd understood. She always did.

At the end of the night, with her hand clasped firmly in his in the backseat of their mom's car, he made a silent promise. He'd live up to all those words she said about him, no matter what. And Dillon always kept his promises. She was counting on him, and he'd go to the ends of the earth to make sure he never let her down.


	4. Summer

Summer knew she shouldn't get up. She knew she was supposed to be in bed. But it was just Andrews and he couldn't really punish her and it was so dark and lonely and stormy. Not that she was scared of the thunderstorm. Of course not. She was nine years old now. She didn't get scared of the dark. Much.

She pulled her favourite bathrobe out of her closet and tied it around her waist, pulling her long blonde hair out the back. She crept down the mahogany staircase at the front of the house and started a timid search for Andrews. He was here somewhere. She just had to find him. To make sure he wasn't afraid of the storm, of course. She wouldn't want him being scared.

There was flickering light coming from the main sitting room and she peaked around the doorframe. Andrews was sitting on the couch and the very large flat television was turned on, volume lowered. There was a little girl on the screen with her blonde hair pulled up into bouncy little pigtails. She was dancing around in a frilly dress. Her mouth was moving, but the volume was so low Summer couldn't hear her.

"Miss Summer! What are you doing out of bed?" Andrews chastised her.

"I couldn't sleep. I had to make sure you weren't scared of the storm," she said, stepping into full view. He smiled at her and she noticed he was out of uniform. His bowtie was undone, hanging limply around his upturned collar, and his jacket was draped over the arm of the couch. How very unbecoming.

"No, Miss Summer, I'm quite alright. But thank you for checking." He chuckled a little and motioned for her to sit down. She practically ran, but in an entirely grown up and ladylike fashion of course, to bounce next to him on the couch. She was just in time to see the little girl skip off stage and a little boy come stumbling on. He had short brown hair plastered down to his head and wide brown eyes. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt which seemed out of place considering the little girl had been wearing such a fancy dress. The camera cut away to the audience. They were dressed far more regally, decked out in the most expensive fashions of the season.

"Is this the charity gala?" she asked, reaching for the remote. Andrews nodded and allowed her to turn up the volume.

"Your parents are right there in the front. The camera shows them most often." She hoped they'd show her mother soon. She'd been there when the new dress had been delivered. She just knew her mother would look so elegant, like a queen.

"Andrews, why are these children singing?" she asked. She'd never actually been allowed to see one of the charity galas before. Her parents held one every year, she knew that much, but she was still too young to attend.

"They're performing as a service for the people donating money."

"What's the charity this year?" She knew it changed every year, but her father had said she didn't need to trouble herself with the details. They had people for that. It was just for publicity anyway.

"St. Hedwig's Home for Orphaned and Abandoned Children. They're in desperate need of a new roof and have been unable to garner enough donations up to this point. It's apparently a floundering orphanage. Your parents are hoping to turn that around." Summer watched as the little boy, so tiny up on that big stage, sang his song. He just wanted somebody to love him, he'd said.

"Why is he so sad, Andrews?" she asked quietly, tears springing unbidden to her eyes.

"He's an orphan, Miss Summer. He doesn't have a family. He must be very lonely," he answered, patting her head. Summer lived a lonely life; she knew what it was like. She was an only child and her parents were away so often. She really only had Andrews to look after her. But despite that, she knew she was loved. She had family and they'd always be there if she really needed them. She couldn't imagine growing up without anybody.

"I thought orphanages didn't exist anymore. I thought they were only out of stories by Charles Dickens," she asked, unable to take her eyes off the screen. She'd never seen a real actual orphan before. He didn't look at all like the children from the stories, all dirty and waifish and British. No, he just looked like an ordinary little boy, albeit a poorly dressed one. Andrews tucked some stray hair behind her ear while she listened to the little boy finish his song.

"No, Miss Summer, I'm afraid not. As long as there are people in this world, there will be children who lose their parents. It is to orphanages they must go until they can find new families."

"Is he poor, Andrews?" she whispered, pointing to the little boy on the screen. She'd never met a poor person either, but she knew about their plight from her social studies tutor.

"Yes, very poor. They need all the help they can get." She couldn't imagine what it was like to be poor. To not have your own pony or car, to not have any dress you wanted, to only have one bedroom in which to play. She couldn't imagine what it was like to not have your own personal chef at your beck and call, or worse, to be forced to attend public school! It was just unthinkable. She suddenly wanted very much to help those poor little children too, even though her father said Landsdowns don't really help people, not if they can't get something out of it in return.

"Andrews, could we adopt him?" she asked, sitting up very quickly. He looked at her with surprise.

"Adopt who, Miss Summer?"

"The boy. At the gala. He's an orphan. He needs a family. Mommy and Daddy have plenty of money. We could adopt him! Then he'd have a family and I'd have a brother to play with! Then neither of us would be lonely any longer!" She was getting very excited now. The little boy had long since left the stage and they'd moved on to the announcer attempting to do some comedy routine, but she didn't want to hear it. She hit the mute button and turned to face her butler. It was a great idea, surely he'd agree!

"Oh now, I don't know, Miss Summer. You'd have to take that up with your mother and father. I'm not sure they're ready to help quite as much as bringing another person into their home, however." He was smiling at her, but she frowned. She really wanted a brother. She'd have to begin asking tomorrow and she wouldn't stop until they agreed.

"Well, maybe I can help another way in the meantime. They need money right?" Andrews nodded. Summer jumped up from the couch, wide awake with excitement. "I've been saving my allowance for the past few weeks. I should have about seven or eight hundred dollars. I could donate it to the orphanage! That would help a little, wouldn't it?"

"Miss Summer, I believe that would help them a great deal." Andrews had that soft smile, like he knew something she didn't. Like he was proud of her. She never quite understood it, but she was too excited to care right now. She smiled at him and ran for the telephone, her hair trailing behind her. She pledged all the money in her account, every last penny of it, in honour of the sad little boy who didn't have a family.

It was the first time Summer Landsdown had given so freely of herself. She never did get her little brother, but she did learn a valuable lesson. Donating the money gave her nothing in return but a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. It took awhile to grow, time to change, but she the seed was planted that dark and stormy night.


	5. Ziggy

Ziggy was beginning to regret agreeing to this. He was standing backstage at the annual Landsdown Charity Gala, it was late, and it was almost his turn. He was tired and there were a lot of people out in the audience, including the Landsdowns themselves. He really didn't want to do this anymore. He turned to Nurse Valentine and opened his mouth to back out, but she adjusted her hat and gave him her stern look. He knew better than to go against that and snapped his mouth shut.

He tried to remember why he'd agreed. He'd hoped that by being on television, maybe somebody would see him and decide they could love him and he'd have a family, people who really cared about him. But mostly it was because Nurse Valentine said he could help them raise more money. He had 'the face of an angel' she said, and rich people liked scrappy little ragamuffins who looked angelic. The charity was the only fundraiser that ever worked. If it wasn't for the charity organizations, they'd never have any money at all. And if there was one thing Ziggy knew, it was that the world revolved around money. Nothing got done without money changing hands; no problems got solved without cold, hard cash. The less money you had, the easier it was to understand. You needed money to accomplish anything in this world and Ziggy had never had anything of his own to start with. And so he had to remember there were a bunch of problems that needed to be fixed and this was the only way he could help.

Caitlyn came skipping off stage to the deafening sound of applause and Ziggy swallowed hard. Why did they always have to put him, skinny, small, unusual him, on stage right after adorable, sweet, charming, blonde haired blue eyed Caitlyn? She was younger, she was cuter, and all she had to do was smile to get people to do what she wanted. Now he had to go out there and sing a song in the hopes of raising money. Who would want to donate because of him after seeing her? Even worse, he just looked pitiful next to her. Nobody would even remember him now; forget about wanting to love him.

The announcer called for the next performer and he hesitated. Nurse Valentine cleared her throat and gave him a little push, sending him stumbling onto the stage. He felt very small, looking out at the crowd. The highest of high society was sitting at the dinner tables out there, staring at him. Waiting for him to do something that would make it worth their while to hand over large sums of money and fix his problems.

"And what's your name, young man?" the announcer asked, shoving a microphone in his face. He took it obediently, his tiny hands wrapping around the warm stem.

"Ziggy. Ziggy Grover," he said just as instructed. He couldn't take his eyes off the audience. There were so many of them.

"And how old are you, Ziggy?"

"I'm eight years old."

"You seem a bit under dressed for the occasion, aren't you, son?" the announcer asked. Ziggy was brought out of his stupor. He looked askance at the announcer and then down at his jeans and dirty sneakers. He shrugged.

"We only had one suit in my size and Andrew got to wear it. Besides, Nurse Valentine said if we all had to be out here on camera and in front of everybody, at least somebody should be comfortable." The audience chuckled and he smiled, at ease again.

"Catholic orphanage, is it?" the announcer laughed. Ziggy didn't get the joke. Judging by the silence, the audience didn't get it either. The announcer cleared his throat. "Now tell us, young man, why did you volunteer to sing for us tonight?" His voice was cheesy. Ziggy didn't like him. He just wanted the interview to be over so he could get on with his song and be done with the whole night.

"Cause we need a new roof. When it rains nobody can sleep because we have to put all the pots and pans out under the drips and they go ping, ping, ping really loud. And when it rains really hard we have to take turns emptying it all into the bathtubs. But it's kind of fun at night, because we get to have sandwiches for dinner since all the cooking stuff gets used to catch the rain." That brought another laugh. He wasn't so bad at this public entertainment stuff after all! They seemed to like him better than the announcer guy at any rate.

"Can I sing my song now?" he asked. They liked that too. Several of the women in their fancy dresses up near the front put their hands over their chests and said 'aw'. He winked at them and they all giggled. Oh yeah, this was easy.

"Well sure! What are you going to sing for us tonight?"

"Where is Love from Oliver!" He turned back to the audience, but the announcer kept talking.

"Ah, a classic! And what made you choose that song?" Ziggy frowned at the man, but then looked back out at all the grownups at their tables. Any one of them, or any of the people watching from home, could be his new mom and dad and he wanted that more than anything else in the whole wide world, so he better make the explanation good.

"I picked it because Oliver's an orphan and I'm an orphan and I know how it feels to just want somebody, anybody, to love you. And at the end he finds his family. So it makes me think maybe I could find a family too. Maybe, if people could love him, somebody could love me, too." That brought several more 'aw's from the women in the audience and he heard a few sniffles and purses opening. The announcer finally stopped talking and walked off stage as the lights dimmed. A spotlight fixed on him and washed out any view of the audience. He took a deep breath.

Ziggy sang his little heart out. He belted out his final note, finishing with a flourish. He was met with silence. Nobody applauded. Nobody cheered. They were just… quiet. The house lights came up and he blinked against them. He stared into the audience, waiting for something, anything, and what he saw surprised him. They were crying. Tears all around, even the men! He shifted on his feet. He didn't know what to do. Andrew and Caitlyn and even Gareth walked off to applause. What did he do wrong? He was so confused.

There was clapping from off the side of the stage, loud and echoing around the room in its solitude. Ziggy looked over, microphone still clutched in his hands, to see Nurse Valentine standing and applauding him. Her face was wet. She was crying too. He put the microphone down on the stage and ran straight into her arms. She wrapped him tight in her embrace and suddenly the rest of the room erupted into applause.

"You did good, Ziggy," she whispered through her tears. He clutched her tighter.

"They didn't clap for me. They didn't like me," he complained, his voice muffled by her chest.

"They were overcome with emotion, that's all. Look, honey," she said. He shook his head. He wouldn't let go. He was afraid to see. "Ziggy, turn around and look at those numbers!" She let go and he pulled back a little. He still clung to her dress, but he turned to see what she was pointing at.

There was a display above the stage. It was tracking the amount of donations and the number had been slowly climbing over the past few hours. The numbers were jumping right now, though, soaring faster than they had all night. Phones were ringing off the hook and as they tallied all the donations, they added them to the sign. Within a matter of minutes, it had doubled from what it was when he first walked on stage.

"What's that mean?" he asked.

"It means you made an impression, you made them love you. You made them want to help. That was all you, baby." He took a step forward, careful to remain backstage, and watched the numbers continue to climb.

"I did that?" he asked in disbelief. Nurse Valentine was still crying. She wrapped him in a hug again and he spent the rest of the night safely on her lap, feeling very important for the first time in his whole entire life.

Ziggy was never adopted, but that night he learnt he could do anything, if he only tried hard enough with the right people. And maybe one day he could be like Oliver. One day he would find a family of sorts, a place he could belong.


End file.
